The Scent of Escape Prt 1.
My lungs are straight-up on fire. Every breath just drags in more city crud and smoke, but whatever—doesn’t matter. All that matters is running, just running, like my life’s dangling by a thread (which, yeah, it kinda is). That patch of woods up ahead, that’s the goal. Gotta get there—gotta get out of this concrete chokehold. I shove my legs harder, blasting through the empty lot behind the Grand Hall, sneakers squealing on the sun-melted asphalt, making this weird, desperate rhythm in my head.
I’m running from the Re-conditioning Ritual. Running from the most soul-crushing, public fiasco of my entire existence. Not even sixty minutes ago, back under those nasty fluorescent lights in Bloodmoon Pack Hall, Alpha Damon Wreed—the guy who basically owns my whole sorry existence—stood up there in front of everyone, looking like he was carved out of frozen marble.
“This Omega is defective. A liability. She is unworthy of the Bloodmoon name and unfit for mating.”
His voice—Alpha Voice—just sliced through the air, bounced off the walls, and gutted me right there. He didn’t just say “no thanks”—he erased me. Marked me for the ritual, that fun little process designed to break Omegas like me who don’t fit the mold.
That memory hits like a gut punch. I can still smell Damon—expensive cologne layered over something rotten, watching the guards close in, not even blinking.
I shove off a busted oil drum, scramble over a chain-link fence. That frantic, panicked energy is draining away, leaving me with nothing but the kind of exhaustion that feels like I’m dragging cement blocks behind me. My mouth tastes like blood—bit my tongue, I guess—and the fear’s rising up, bitter and sharp.
Everything feels too loud, too much. The city air is thick with exhaust, heavy and filthy, fighting the earthier stink of mud and rotting leaves that’s sneaking in through every c***k. But beneath all of that—something else. Metallic. Blood on the wind.
The pack’s hunters. They’re closing in. Bloodmoon wolves don’t just give up. Dead or alive, they’ll drag me back.
I’m not a person to them. I’m a warning poster. Some tragic lesson. They’ll keep chasing me until I’m dragged back by my hair.
My foot clips a chunk of busted concrete, and I eat pavement, hard. My hands scrape across the stones, pain shooting up my arms. It knocks the wind right out of me.
Pathetic.
That word just claws through my head. Old shame. Damon’s voice, my own self-loathing: twenty-one years old and I’ve never shifted.
A werewolf without a damn wolf.
Every breath, every stumble, I feel that failure. Stuck in this weak, human body, carrying the Omega label like it means something. Omegas are supposed to be the glue, the heart of the pack. But a broken Omega who can’t shift? Just a problem for someone else to solve. Damon used that like a weapon.
But there’s something else, too—a stupid, stubborn ember that won’t die. I’m not going back. I might not have a wolf, but my will is mine. My mind is sharp. My heart’s still beating, still pissed off. Damon can own my body if he wants, but he doesn’t get all of me. Not ever. I drag myself up, knee screaming, and start running again. Just gotta make it to the boundary.
And then I see it—the park’s edge, wild and messy, tangled up with brambles and shadows. Not some cute city playground, but a real patch of half-wild forest, the first slice of “no man’s land” between packs.
I know what’s on the other side: no rules, no pack, no safety net. If I cross, I’m rogue. Prey for anyone who wants a bite. But also? Free. The rules stop at that line.
My heart’s beating so loud it’s practically a drumline in my chest. I can taste the tang of the patrol—close now, probably rounding the warehouse.
Marcus’s voice rips through the night—loud, bossy, impossible to ignore. “Omega! Stop immediately! Return to Bloodmoon jurisdiction!” He always sounds like he’s chewing on gravel, but what I remember most is the stink of fear coming off him.
I don’t look back. I hurl myself into the tangle of leaves and thorns. Branches whip my face, scratch me up, tear my dress to shreds, but honestly? I need the pain. It’s cleaner than the panic. I keep shoving forward and suddenly the ground changes—no more burning pavement, just cool, squishy earth. I did it. I crossed. I’m rogue now.
A broken laugh slips out, half a sob, half a “screw you.” I did it. I actually made it.
But I barely get a taste of freedom before the brush splits, and everything gets darker, heavier. I push through the last mess of leaves, heart pounding, eyes wild, scanning for—well, anything.
And then—bam. Whiteout.
I slam into something massive. It doesn’t even budge. There’s a wave of heat, wild and raw, and for a second, all that fear just…burns right off.
Slamming into him is like eating concrete—unforgiving, hot, and totally unexpected. I gasp, wind punched right out of me, and stagger back, dizzy, my hand scrambling for anything solid. All I get is some stranger’s arm—thick as a tree trunk, muscles hard as steel cables.
Even with my brain scrambled, I know he’s not some grunt from Bloodmoon. Too big. Too solid. The heat rolling off him is intense, almost crushing. It’s not normal warmth—more like standing next to a wildfire that’s been burning for centuries. Ancient. Dangerous. It’s a miracle I’m still upright.
I clutch my chest, trying to drag in air, panicked thoughts spinning. Alpha.
Oh hell. A real Alpha.
